


Ripple And Wake

by andlightplay



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlightplay/pseuds/andlightplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She looks at him and can see only echoes, the boy he was and all the centuries between when she should have known better, should have seen more clearly what he was and what they were making him and tempered it, and perhaps prevented everything that has now come to pass.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: five memories Frigga can now look back on in glorious 20/20 hindsight and think "well, shit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ripple And Wake

They bring him in in chains. Her son, not in blood but in heart and mind, now driven by that absence of blood to terrible things, as though it counted for anything, as though family is only about who you were born to. He sees her and thinks he can hide behind his words, smoothed calm and poised as if he neither knows nor cares that his actions were wrong, as if she has not seen the fragile, polished armour he puts on when he expects dire punishment dozens of times before, for childish misdeeds and older, crueller tricks that should have been their first warning. She looks at him, standing before Odin shackled but unbowed, and can see only echoes, the boy he was and all the centuries between when she should have known better, should have seen more clearly what he was and what they were making him and tempered it, followed her instincts and counselled her husband to do the same, and perhaps prevented everything that has now come to pass.

*

*

**I**

“Frigga,” Odin says from the doorway, and she heard him coming, the sharp sounds of his boots on the floor, but in her lap Thor stirs, blinks sleepily and coos, beaming. He at least is unmoved by the shining metal covering one of Odin’s eyes, but the other one softens at Frigga’s worried gaze.

“It’s done, my love, and nothing to be wept about. As war wounds go, it could be far worse.”

Frigga inclines her head stiffly, and Odin comes into the room and over to her. He’s got something in his arms, she sees now, wrapped in his cloak. It looks like- but it can’t be. What would a child be doing on a battlefield? And yet... He passes the bundle to her as he stoops to kiss her, and she takes it without thought, heavy and warm in her arms. Thor is burbling with delight and Odin sweeps him up, pressing a kiss to his forehead while Thor bounces excitedly, grabbing for his father’s beard, his armour.

“Odin,” Frigga says, low, staring down at the babe he has just dropped into her lap, and the child looks solemnly back at her, new-born and wide-eyed. Surely the campaign was not long enough...

“I found him,” Odin answers, offering Thor one ringed hand to play with so he can look at her full-on with his single eye, wry but unrepentant. “On Jotunheim. He is one of Laufey’s, left to die, but I could not-”

“No,” Frigga agrees softly, watching Thor swivel one of Odin’s rings about his finger with bright-eyed fascination. Now that she looks, the babe has the glimmer of magic about him, soft and delicate as new-fallen snow. Deliberately, she breaks it, and deep jotun blue suffuses his skin, eyes deepening to scarlet, markings mapping themselves across his body. But his infant gaze does not waver, looking up at her with innocent fascination, tiny fingers flexing on top of his makeshift blanket.

Thor makes a questioning noise, peering at the child from Odin’s arms. Frigga looks up, meeting Odin’s eye.

“Here, Thor,” she says quietly, shifting the babe in her arms so Thor can better see him. “This is your new brother.” Odin lowers Thor a little and the boy reaches out, little pink fingers touching the baby’s cheek. At the touch the blue skin flushes pale again, and Frigga cannot contain her surprise, her accusing glance at Odin. She had thought _he_ had glamoured the child, but it is the infant’s own magic, raw and untempered, seeking survival by mimicking the form of those around him, ingratiating himself with his rescuers. Thor clumsily pats the now-rosy cheek, murmuring in the same soft tone Frigga uses to put him to bed.

Odin offers her a smile, apologetic and fond and triumphant all at once, and she accepts it with a curve to her own lips, shaking her head at the madness that has come upon her house. So they are to foster a frost giant, and raise him as kin to their own son, a lost jotun prince thinking himself aesir. For all Odin pleads a soft heart she can see the scheme as clearly as he; a jotun raised in Asgard will have no hatred for them, and can be installed in time on the throne of Jotunheim as a peaceful ally, preventing perhaps forever another bloody war like that which Odin has just fought.

“Come, my son, it is past time you were in bed,” Odin says, and Thor whines, distracted from his new-found sibling and clinging stubbornly to Odin’s armour even as he rubs at his eyes, and Odin chuckles and carries him away to the nursery, promising to tell him tales of his exploits to lull him to sleep.

Frigga turns her attention to the child and gently nudges him into sleep as well, the better to accommodate her work. His magic is a light veil over him, distorting his true form just enough to conceal it, and she begins the delicate work of teasing it out like a skein of silk, careful not to break it again. It needs no alteration, only anchoring and strengthening so it cannot be so easily removed and give him away again.

She doesn't know how many hours she whiles away gently weaving him a second skin, a glamour that blots away his true nature until only an illusion remains, softened and distorted, a permanent trick of the light and air about him to hide the cold of his skin and the bloody crimson of his eyes. But finally she looks upon him and sees only a child, perhaps a year younger than Thor, sleeping peacefully and cocooned with an illusion so fine even she can only see it with an effort, bound into his own magic so intricately that he should never notice it’s there.

She finds Thor’s old cradle and lays him down, covering him with a proper blanket and absently folding Odin’s cloak about her shoulders in the pre-dawn chill. Now, tired and unguarded, still faintly aware of the infant in the magic that is prickling at her bones, she allows herself a moment of concern. Can they really expect this jotun to accept himself as aesir? Is it wise to take him into their house and raise him as their own, to let him think he is their son, Thor’s brother, when all the while he is sheened with glamour, a false skin that unknowingly marks him a trickster and a liar, makes the very foundations of him falsehoods and illusions?

But these are not thoughts for the new day, and she puts them aside. It is already done; she has taken her first steps down the path the Norns have laid before her, and can do nothing now but follow it.

*

**II**

Thor’s play is loud and exuberant, surprisingly soothing in its own way, like the constant rush of waves at the shore. Frigga sits at the table with the sunlight warm on her back and lighting the myriad pages before her, and her children play about her feet. Earlier Thor was chasing Loki, who hid from him and gave himself away only by his unsuccessfully-muffled giggles, but now Thor is rushing about the room enacting wars and campaigns with great gusto, toy figurines in either hand and clashing together in battle, or dropped from great heights in ambush, and Loki has gathered his share of toy people to him and is watching intently. Occasionally Thor’s armies think to invade, but they seem mostly occupied with in-fighting and daring deeds to impress their enthusiastic king. This is well, as Loki’s people lie mostly forgotten in the shelter of his crossed legs, all his attention fixed on Thor and his games.

“I am the victor!” Thor announces finally, flinging himself down at Loki’s side. “See, all _your_ people have died of boredom! Ah well - here, you may have mine.” A shower of carved wooden figures falls into Loki’s lap, making him grin. “See that you treat them better this time!”

Thor bounces back up again, interest captured by the paints Frigga had set up at the other end of the table. She gives him a smile as he scrambles up into the chair and he beams back, already reaching for a piece of paper.

Back on the floor, Loki is frowning intently down at his new toys. He picks a few up and examines them curiously, as though waiting for them to imbue him with the same vigor as Thor. Experimentally, he hits two together, then again, enjoying the noise. But still they do not seem to fire his imagination as they had Thor’s, and are quickly discarded but for his favourite dragon, which he keeps clutched in one hand as he comes over to the table. Thor is engrossed in his artwork, paint in his hair again despite it being newly shorn, and Frigga keeps an eye on Loki as he finds his own way up onto the chair next to her and peers solemnly at the nearest pages.

“It’s grown-up’s work, my love, and dull as well,” Frigga says after a moment, and Loki huffs a put-upon sigh he can only have learned from Thor at bedtime and sets the dragon on the table, prodding it with a finger to make it light up green and walk jerkily across the tabletop, flexing its wings. He follows after it, crawling across the gaps between chairs until he finds himself next to Thor.

“There’s some other paper over there,” Thor tells him without looking up, tongue curled out of one side of his mouth in concentration, and Loki sighs again, harder this time, and deliberately wriggles over him to get to the spare supplies. This disrupts Thor’s work, prompting him to complain loudly and retaliate, which leads to a brief scuffling match that ends with more paint on both of them than on the paper and Thor getting a papercut on one eyebrow. 

“Enough,” Frigga says firmly when Thor’s finger comes away with a pinprick of scarlet, and they both freeze guiltily like dogs caught with cold water. “Thor, let me see.”

“It’s fine, Mama,” Thor objects, poking at the tiny cut again where it’s already closing. “It’s a battle scar.” He throws a glare at his brother and stomps off in a huff to go and swing his toy sword at what Frigga has no doubt is an invisible Loki, and she levels a pointed look at the offender, now sitting in splendid isolation at the other end of the table.

“He started it, Mama,” Loki says reasonably, hand wrapped around the toy dragon again. “I was just tryin t’get past him.” His conscience thus absolved, he turns his attention to the art supplies he now has unrestricted access to. Frigga considers his industriously bent head; she has no doubt that that is how Loki sees it, despite knowing, as they all do, that Thor’s temper is as bright and fierce and easily provoked as his joy. Loki is always guileless, with the earnestness of the very young, and yet that in itself is its own kind of guile; he is ever serious and reasonable, such that you cannot help but believe him, even when you are aware that he was equally at fault. 

“But you didn't have to do so quite so disruptively,” is what she says, and Loki blinks up at her, round child’s face open and innocent. Then he smiles, small and conspiratorial, like she has just caught him smuggling extra dessert under the table.

“Yes, Mama.” His eyelashes dip first, followed by his head.

He adds to Thor’s drawing for a little while, then grows bored again. Eventually he hops down off the chair and shuffles over to Thor, every inch the repentant little brother, and Thor draws himself up and tells him very seriously that he will have to pay, then pounces on him and tickles him until Loki eels free and dashes away, shrieking with laughter, and is just a little boy again.

*

**III**

“The Bifrost has reactivated, your majesties,” one of the guards reports, and Frigga and Odin exchange a glance. They were not _worried_ \- the Nine Realms are at peace and the boys had a complement of men with them - but even so it is reassuring to hear that they are returning. They can also anticipate Thor’s happiness at finally having in his hand the weapon he has dreamed of for so long, and will be re-given when he is of age to wield it with proper purpose and restraint.

A few moments later there is the sound of feet upon stone; the doors are opened and the retinue enters, four Einherjar in polished armour and in their centre-

“Loki!” Frigga gasps, and her son tilts his head up defiantly, smooth young jaw tense. The gold mesh stretched across his mouth glints in the light.

“It’s alright Mother, he isn't hurt,” Thor assures her, looking at Loki sidelong. Loki’s nostrils flare but he nods in confirmation, shoulders still stiff. “Look!” Thor lifts the hammer from his side, hefting it above his head with both hands and beaming. “Behold Mjolnir, mightiest of hammers!” The metal is smooth and perfect, the shape simple yet elegant with it. Electricity crackles in the air around it, little sparks arcing across the silver surface and flickering outwards with hisses and pops. Thor’s smile is incandescent.

“That is well made, my son,” Odin agrees, coming down from the throne. Thor lowers the hammer as his father approaches, a final lick of lightning dissipating with a sizzling sound, and Odin lays a proud hand on his head, now as high as his hip. “You have done well today, and seen forged a weapon truly worthy of you, a prince of Asgard and defender of the Nine Realms. I look forward to the day you are old enough to take it up with true purpose.”

He steps back and holds out a hand, and with visible reluctance Thor hands the hammer over. At Odin’s gesture, two guards come forward. “Take this to the weapon’s vault, and see that it is set aside for the prince when he comes of age.”

“Yes, sire.”

“But I could wield it now!” Thor complains as he watches his beloved new toy being taken away - but quietly, because he knows better than to protest Odin’s orders. Loki snorts.

“And as for you,” Odin continues, turning to him, and Loki juts out his chin. “How did this come to pass?” His scowl lights on the guards, who all draw themselves up conscientiously. “How did my son end up gagged like a common miscreant?”

“He distracted the smith,” Thor supplies, and Loki’s eyes flash, though he doesn't move. “He was poking around and getting into everything like he does, and he accidentally pressed the wrong thing at the wrong time and it made the handle too short. It’s fine though, I don’t mind - I can still hold it alright, you saw.”

“Yes,” Odin says slowly, eye on Loki, and Loki stares back at him, unrepentant. Frigga feels a headache coming on.

“So there was no lasting harm done,” she surmises, crossing between them and kneeling before Loki, reaching behind his head for the fastening of the gag. It’s twisted securely but not painfully - the dwarfs know better than to hurt any more than a prince’s pride - and comes loose under her fingers. Loki jerks his head free and makes a face, scrubbing at his cheeks, where faint pink imprints of the meshwork still linger. “Here my love, let me-”

“No,” Loki says, twitching away from her fingers. “It’s my just punishment.”

“And do you feel it was sufficient?” Odin asks, eyebrows raised. “For disrupting the smith’s work, for almost ruining your brother’s gift?”

“I was just seeing how it worked, that’s all!”

“He was not at fault, Father, his curiosity merely got the best of him again,” Thor agrees stalwartly, and Frigga and Odin share a look.

“Well, Loki? Do you feel yourself justly punished?” Odin asks, and Loki bows his head.

“I do.”

“Well then.” Gugnir smacks into the ground, and Odin turns away.

“Loki,” Frigga begins, but he brushes her off. She watches him walk away, head held high; behind her, Thor is asking if he can go and ensure Mjolnir has been correctly put away. She follows her younger son, a waif in silver-blue and green, until finally he stops, shoulders heaving with his sigh.

“Mother.” He turns to her, green eyes solemn, guarded. She shepherds him into an alcove and settles herself on the cushioned seat, looking out over the shining city, the void flung out behind it like a banner.

“I’m glad you share my magic,” she tells him after a moment, and sees him start from the corner of her eye; this is not how he expected their conversation to go. “I may have been a shieldmaiden of some renown, and taken great joy in battle, but seiðrcraft is the deepest joy of my heart, and it pleases me to know that you understand that too.”

Loki looks back at her, apprehensive and surprised, eyes wide.

“Thor’s greatest joy is already in war, in fighting and testing his strength and finding that he is strong. We thought to rejoice in that with him, to give him a tool to complement his abilities and to assist him with his future responsibilities - for do not forget, my son, that a hammer can be used to build as much as to destroy. You already have your devices, your skills, and they will only grow as you do, so that you will one day be just as strong, just as able as Thor. And as you come into that power, so will Thor take up his hammer, and you will be equals, though you come by your strength in different ways. What could we give you, that you do not already have?”

Loki is silent, staring out of the window. His jaw works like he is chewing on words he doesn’t want to say. “Why does Thor get a special ceremony though?” he finally blurts out. “Why will Thor be fêted and celebrated just because he can pick up a hammer when he comes of age, and I just get to stand there and work magic with my bare hands! Father has Gugnir; can I not have a, a staff, or some other symbol to mark me his equal?”

“Do you need one?” Frigga asks, reaching out to stroke his hair, sticking up every which way like a raven’s ruffled feathers. “Do I carry such a ‘symbol’, to show I am your father’s equal?”

“No, but you’re the queen! Everyone knows- everyone knows you’re the best at seiðrwork.”

“And you are just as much a prince as Thor. And because you are my son, I do not think anyone will be in any doubt as to your abilities at seiðrcraft.” Loki’s mouth tugs into an unwilling smile, pleased and proud. “Do not begrudge Thor his hammer, Loki. It is only to raise him equal to you.” The smile becomes radiant. Loki throws himself into her arms and she wraps them tight around him, wondering how much longer she will be able to soothe his mantling jealousy before its claws dig in too deeply and he begins to disbelieve her.

*

**IV**

The click and clash of wooden practice weapons is muted from the balcony, but still audible. Thor’s golden head is easy to find, Loki’s darker hair nearby, pulled back into stubby ponytails to keep it from their eyes. Around them are other equally light and dark heads, as well as the fiery red of the assistant training master, watching attentively. He makes a sharp gesture and Loki and his blond partner disengage, the assistant stepping in to demonstrate something and Loki mimicking him, frustration clear in his sharp movements.

“Loki isn’t trying hard enough,” Odin says from behind her, coming to lean on the balcony railing, and Frigga suppresses a sigh. 

Where Thor is a natural at combat and excels without much effort, Loki has some aptitude but little taste for it, and is even less inclined to improvement when Thor effortlessly beats him at every turn. Frigga sometimes regrets telling him his magic would make him Thor’s equal, as it means he pours all his effort and interest into spellcraft and conjuring and leaves none for the combat training he must endure for a while yet. He objects to the mindlessness of the drills, the dullness of the weaponry, and the ban on magic that leaves him without his best advantage, when in real battle he would be able to use whatever skills he had at his disposal. Frigga always points out that allowing youngsters to enter realistic combat situations would be disastrous, and Loki always subsides into sullen mutterings and throwing his illusory daggers at the nearest wall. His aim with them is becoming near-perfect.

“Loki is not Thor,” she reminds him, and Odin huffs.

“I am aware.”

“Are you? You judge them by the same measure, though one is favoured by it and the other disadvantaged. Loki’s true strength is not in arms but in magic, and he will never match up to Thor in training.”

“Nor will he ever try to,” Odin points out, nodding down at the practice below. Thor is sparring with a dark-haired girl, his laughter audible even from above; Loki and the blond boy have resumed trading blows, but for all the boy dances about, light on his feet, goading Loki into a response, it is conservative and perfunctory, with none of Thor’s easy joy.

“Thor holds Mjolnir as a talisman to spur him on,” Frigga says carefully. “Loki merely wishes to be done so he can get back to his spellwork.” Odin snorts. “Just because you can balance both spear and seiðrcraft, my love-”

“Loki is a prince of Asgard. He must strive to become the best warrior and the best man he can be, not sulk about refusing to engage in his training so he can fritter away his time at other pursuits of lesser importance.” He catches Frigga’s eye and looks away again. “He is a _prince_ ,” he repeats, softer, and Frigga shifts closer, shoulders touching.

“But he will not be the king,” she says, equally soft, and Odin deflates. “It does not reflect badly on us, nor on him, if he prefers sorcery over swordwork. It does not mark him as different, or unusual; you are his father, and I his mother, and both of us have magic. Thor got our battle skills, and Loki our tricks. But he chafes at being forced to learn that which he has little natural talent at while Thor is not made to do the same, and it feeds his resentment. If we are not careful, it will become a poison.”

“We have raised them together, how can Loki resent him? What trick of fate is it that even a jotun who thinks an aesir his brother still objects to him?”

“It is not Thor he resents, but the favour he gains through no fault of his own. Asgard rejoices in its brave warriors, but magic is a mere frippery, a thing of lesser importance.” She lets a little weight creep into the last words, and Odin turns to face her fully, frowning slightly in acknowledgement and touching one hand off her elbow. “Loki will never outshine Thor in battle unless it is by his tricks, and then that will be deemed a false victory. You continue to praise Thor for his accomplishments, and insist that Loki follow in his footsteps, where he will always be overshadowed. Allow him some light of his own. His magic is growing fast, and he is proving good at statecraft; his quick tongue is becoming an advantage and he is very good at reading people and persuading them that his words are what they wish to hear.”

Odin snorts. “That is an old skill, and one he perfected some time ago.”

“Yes,” Frigga admits, “but it may yet be a virtue rather than a vice, if properly handled.”

Odin is silent for a moment, and then he chuckles. “Alright my queen, you have once again proven yourself my better half. I will endeavour to recognise Loki’s achievements alongside Thor’s, in the hope of keeping our two princes at peace and averting some schism between them.”

“Good, that is all I ask,” Frigga says, catching his hand in hers and squeezing.

“However, there is still no excuse for Loki’s lackadaisical attitude towards his training. He must learn to defend himself, and the realm, and all the worlds if necessary, for he is a prince of Asgard and it is his duty.” He brushes a kiss over her hand and departs, and Frigga looks after him with a sigh caught behind her teeth.

When she turns back to the drills, it is just in time to see Loki, downed again and pretending to recover his breath, wrap a thin green line about Thor’s ankle and tug, pulling his foot out from under him and giving the girl the upper hand. The girl crows her victory and Thor picks himself up with no harm done, thumping her on the shoulder in congratulations, but the blond boy taps Loki on the chest with the end of his staff. He helps him up a second later though, so he cannot be angry about it, but they renew their fight with vigour, whatever he has said to Loki enlivening him. The red-haired instructor watches them with folded arms, disapproving; evidently he takes a less forgiving view. His eyes move up to Frigga and he inclines his head, and she nods back then removes herself from the balcony.

*

**V**

“Hello, Mother,” Loki says from behind her, strangely echoing, and when she turns there are four of him, all watching her expectantly, smiles playing about their mouths.

She studies them carefully. They all breathe, all watch her back, all endeavour to keep straight faces and cannot quite manage, delight radiating through the longer she considers. Only one, however, has the sheen of extra glamour about him, different to the faint shimmer of the illusions, and it is this one she finally comes to stand in front of.

He keeps the magic going for a moment longer, then lets the three replicas fade, shoulders slumping with the expended effort. She gives in to the compulsion to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, still faintly surprised that she only has to reach out and not down, and he immediately shakes his head to free it again, lips twitching impertinently.

“That was well done, my son. I almost didn’t see you.”

“How _did_ you find me?”

“Ah, that’s not for me to tell.”

“Mother!” he complains, suddenly a child again despite his height and broadening shoulders. “I need to know! What if I attempt that on the battlefield and my enemy knows the same secret? I will be gutted like a pig, and you will weep that you wished you had told me the trick of it!”

Frigga laughs. “What battlefield will this be? The Nine Realms have been at peace for near a thousand years; what disaster do you foresee ending it?”

“Well, for a start Thor will eventually become king-” 

“Loki.”

“Mother.”

“Your brother looks to become a fine man, a noble warrior-”

“-which means his greatest joy in life is seeking conflict and courting battle so that he may indulge in swinging Mjolnir about to his heart’s content! He is as suited to the throne as a rutting bilgesnipe, for all he acts like one!” 

“He has time yet to grown into his station, to discard the exuberance of youth once it earns him the wisdom of experience-”

“Oh yes, for he has learned so much in the last four-score years!”

“He is young yet, Loki. You both are. Your father is not set to give up his throne for some centuries at least; there is time for you both to accept your roles.”

“I know my role well enough already - to stand by while Thor is heaped in praise and glory and allowed to ascend to the throne despite how ill-suited he is to it, and to attempt to curb his impetuousness and preserve his golden head from the wrath he wilfully brings down upon it!” Loki paces before her, a trapped and bristling beast.

“Loki-” she reaches out to him, thinking to soothe his temper as she had when he was younger. He stills but ignores her hand, fists clenched at his sides, glaring into space and clearly aiming for the object of his rant, wherever he may be. The eyes he eventually turns to her blaze like the magic the binds them in place of blood.

“No Mother, I have accepted it. For all Father says we were born to be kings, I will only sit on the throne if I fail in my duty and Thor finds himself against an opponent he cannot triumph over. And that would be a bitter ascension indeed. I do not wish him ill, I only wish him to be seen unblinkered so that his failings might be brought to attention. If, Norns forbid, Father was to be struck down somehow tomorrow, you cannot tell me Thor would make a good king.”

“If your father was found unable to rule tomorrow my love, the care of Asgard would fall to me, not Thor.”

“But he will be crowned heir before the millennium is out, will he not? And in the time between then and now, he will continue to carouse and brawl his way around the realms, and no one will think to question his suitability, while I study tact and diplomacy and perfect it at his side, preventing twice as many incidents as he creates, and yet I will never be considered to have an equal claim.” His voice turns bitter.

“Loki, you know the order of succession. Thor is the elder, he has the first claim-”

“Even if he should be unfit for it?”

Frigga sighs. “I think you malign him unfairly, my love. He is...rambunctious, yes, and unthoughtful, heedless of future consequence when his fun can be had now, but you too have your failings. For one, you persist in speaking ill of him, when he has many decades to better himself after enjoying his youth-”

“What you call ‘enjoyment’ in him would be base coarseness in another of lesser birth, and yet-”

“Loki, enough. You have said your piece, and I have listened, better than your father would, but I cannot continue listening to you talking in circles, and slandering your brother besides. You cannot object to his vices so much, for I know you accompanied him and his friends to Alfheim last week.” Loki’s mouth opens and then shuts again, pale cheeks easily giving away his flush. “Oh yes, my son, your absence was noted, as was that of the six-dozen mead horns from the kitchens and the length of silk from my stores. I hope whatever use it was put to was successful.” Loki studiously avoids her eyes, lips compressed but unable to quite conceal his smirk. “Now, is your ire quite vented? Good. I am pleased that you have mastered that trick, it speaks well of your grown abilities and discipline. I hope that the only use to which you ever have to put it is confusing your poor mother.”

“You were not confused by it,” Loki objects, but allows her to steer him towards the door. “Will you not tell me how you knew me?” he adds plaintively, catching himself on the doorframe and peering hopefully up at her, and she laughs.

“You are my son, I will always know you.”

Loki makes a face, tongue clicking irritably off his teeth at receiving sentiment rather than knowledge, but he suffers her to brush her fingers down his face and even captures them briefly with his own, strong young fingers folding about hers before pulling away as he leaves.

*

*

She sends him books, because she knows he will otherwise do something drastic in his boredom, and because paper itself cannot do any harm, to him or to others. There are some of his old favourites in there, taken unashamedly from his bookshelf, and a few new texts, either recently acquired or ones she knows he did not have a chance to read, before. Into the middle of the stack she slips the old book of fairytales she used to read to him and Thor at bedtime; she is almost certain he will curl his lip and disdain it, perhaps even throw it at the wall, or destroy it in a fury that she still thinks him a child, unable to curb his temper and perpetually certain that Thor is awarded the greater share of any glory without due merit. 

She cannot speak to that, but she can offer him a reminder, a glimpse of the echoes she sees, and hope that with nothing else to do he might sooner rather than later be able to perceive them more clearly himself.


End file.
